


Into The Shallow

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-02 04:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono issues Edge with a dare. Set in the late 80s.





	1. Dare

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, Ima start this off with the usual 'I had planned to make this a short one-shot but the word count ballooned so I thought it best to cut this mofo in half!' spiel, because I am useless. So here we are, half a fic, though the rest is close to being done. I hope you enjoy my slightly feverish/Bono and Edge live in a utopia and don't have to worry about drama for once in a spacemonkey fic/a bit stupid new story! Titles comes from....Gaga. Because yes. And I've never been to Dublin, so the two locations here are from my own imagination and likely have no place in the real world and are insanity to consider, but I had a vision! Love you all.

The suggestion hangs between us as you park the car, taking an extended moment after turning the key and silencing the engine to survey the scene ahead.

It’s part of the game, of course. You know what the sea looks like, and you’ve stolen more than one glance at the water and away from me during the possible twelve years that have passed since I made the proposal and you went off-road at minus two miles an hour with a grin that even the darkness just could not hide. The bump of the dunes, the water _slooowly_ getting closer, a passing fear that someone might be sunbathing in the dark (nightbathing?) and we won’t know until it’s too late—you gave us an eternity to experience these moments together, although that last one might just have been for me.

 _Do you think there is a chance we’ve killed tonight?_ I wanted to say to you after a particularly suspect bump, but didn’t. Why take your mind off the subject at hand? There’s a reason why I brought it up, and it wasn’t just because we were close to the water.

It’s been building, hasn’t it? I know you’ve noticed it too, that you’re feeling that itch that has never quite been scratched hard enough, or at all, really. And I don’t know about you—though I have my hopes—but I’m pretty fucking tired of it. Thus, a dare was proposed.

It’s just the way my genius mind works, apparently. Us together, alone with you exposed, equals you obviously turning toward sweet temptation. How else could you react?

I know, I know. I’ve seen the possibilities, lived them, been left with my gun half-cocked on too many occasions. But tonight, Edge, tonight . . .

I just have a good feeling, is all. And I hope you’re right there with me.

You finally break the silence between us with a sigh that is almost theatrical, one that I think you might have stolen from my own collection. You turning on the interior light is a godsend, even though I already know what face you’re wearing before you glance my way. It’s just nice being able to properly visualise it, to add another hidden smile to the memory bank.

“I will if you will,” you say, words that match what imaginary-you had been responding with during those apparent years spent driving over bumpy sand in silence. Your expression tells me you not only know my response, but are anticipating it. I don’t have to tell you I’m willing—you only suggested it because you know what I’m like.

All I need to be convinced is a faint idea on the breeze, an enticing voice in the back of my mind. _Why don’t you  . . ._ it says, not needing to finish that train of thought. That voice, too, knows what I’m like, and given that it exists only in my mind, that’s probably a good thing.

A man whose inner voice is a stranger to him is a man who is in serious fucking trouble.

“You know that I will,” I say, causing you to sigh again, this time like you were hoping for a no, though that gleam in your eye tells me your drama is still just for show.

Oh, it really is one of those nights, isn’t it? Are you feeling bold enough to see it through this time? You’re looking like you might be, though I’ve thought that before, like a fucking idiot. But here we are. Another night, another chance, a dare to start it all off on the right foot. Who knows? I may be left disappointed, sure, but still, I’ve no choice but to get my hopes up.

It’s just what you do to me.

“Edge, you know I don’t need an excuse.”

You groan, more theatrics, but you’re smiling, leaning closer to me, your hair fluttering in the sea breeze coming through the open window. “You’re really going to make me do it, aren’t you?”

“What’s wrong? Can’t handle a little adventure in your life?” I cock my head, raise an eyebrow, two actions I know will make you roll your eyes and fail to bite back the laughter that bubbles out. And you do both, shaking your head for a little bit of extra colour, grinning still when you finally do glance back at me, your gaze as warm as I’d hoped it would be. “If you’re not down for some fun, then maybe you shouldn’t whisper such a suggestion in my ear.”

“I didn’t whisper. I made the suggestion in a clear, loud voice,” you insist. “That’s the only way to get your fucking attention sometimes.”

“By advocating me to take my clothes off with you?”

“Well, that, yes, but—”

“Because it worked. You have my full attention. I’m buying what you’re selling, I’m willing and able, constricted as I am by all these buttons, these shoes, even my socks—”

“Will you stop talking?”

“No,” I say, then fall silent.

You shake your head once more, still smiling. “You know you bring out the very worst in me, Bono. I don’t know how you do it.”

I want to respond in a way that will change the direction of our conversation entirely, to turn the tone of it from playful to something a little more serious, a lot more heated. I’m tempted to tell you that I see things from a different perspective, that you bring out only the best in me, but we’re not quite there yet.

Luckily, the night is young, and there is plenty on hand for us to drink, to loosen you up in a way that summons all the confidence contained in that maddingly distracting body of yours.

I’m still hopeful.

“I dare you to go first,” I say with a wink. You laugh again. “I mean, that was the original proposal here before you brought me into the equation, so I think it’s only fair it plays out that way.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s either that or you have to reveal a spectacularly scandalous secret to me that no one else knows. You know, the type that makes you ashamed, yet somehow proud, whenever you think of it.”

“That’s a problem,” you counter, “since I’ve stupidly made it a habit of mine to tell you my secrets already. I don’t think I have anything for you.”

“Oh really? _All_ of them, Edge? Even the especially naughty ones?”

You purse your lips as you study my face, no doubt scrolling through the archives of your mind. And then you smile, in a way that I think very few people ever get to experience coming from you. In fact, that smile might just belong to me.

It’s almost indecent.

“Well, maybe not all of them,” you murmur. “Though I imagine you could figure a few out without any assistance.”

“I probably could on those days when I’m sharp and have more than half a brain, but tonight I’m feeling a little slow. Can you give me a clue to help prod things along?”

“Such as?”

I shrug. “Oh, I don’t know . . . who it is that makes you think these thoughts that are so filthy they must be kept a secret, for instance.”

“You assume that all my secrets are sex-related fantasies?”

“Only the ones you don’t tell me.”

“I’ve told you plenty.”

“Ah! Not all of them, I’m sure. I think we all have those particular fantasies, the ones that are so dirty, so enticing that they cannot be spoken about to another person. But you can trust me, Edge. I would never tell. Nor judge you.”

“All I’m hearing is that you probably fantasise about some really kinky shit, B.” You smirk at me. I don’t dare try and argue. We both know you’re right. “I think it’s only fair that if you want me to divulge my secrets, then you do the same thing. So tell me, who are _yours_ about?”

I pause, simply because you expect me to. “My thinking, currently, is that maybe we should forget about telling truths and go back to the dare side of things.”

 _If lightly pressed, however_ , I want to add, _it’s likely I would admit some of those secrets to you, as long as I get to watch you undress first, just for me, under the guise of something pretending to be innocent_.

It’s the best of both worlds, our most current version of truth and dare. A sight I’ve seen plenty (but still never enough), select fantasies being shared. Do you already have your suspicions regarding who I think about in ways that I can never tell anyone, but might yet share with you? Would it turn you on to hear them, to know for sure you’re always on my mind when it _truly_ counts?

Would that be enough to make you cross a line?

You again survey the scene in front of us instead of looking my way, then crane your head this way and that, searching for—fuck, who even knows? Fanatics or otherwise, I can only assume. Those with eyes or a camera or both, capable to catch us completely off-guard. Your worry is pointless, of course. There’s not a soul around to disturb us, nor barely enough moon nor stars to shine a light down for three wise men or whoever the fuck else to use as a guide.

It’s just you and me, Edge. There’s not a damn thing to worry about unless we create our own problems.

“Good thing it’s a warm night,” you say, resigned to your fate, and though you are looking away from me, I still know you’re smiling. All this stalling, and for what? We’re right back to where we started—exactly where we both want to be.

You leave the high beams on for light, clutching a bottle of vodka in hand as you climb out of the car. I follow, as is my way only when I’m with you, and only sometimes. It’s when my feet hit the sand that I find myself briefly considering whether there are any actual laws against vehicles parking on the beach in Ireland, so close to the shore. Not that it matters, as we are rock stars and shit like this is expected and excused . . . mostly. And, really, it has nothing on what we’re about to do—even _I_ know public nudity is frowned upon in many cases, though it’s never stopped me before.

You’re probably just thanking the Lord that this place is deserted, for those reasons and so much more. I am too, but only because I have _so much more_ on my mind.

We are alone, and together, crowding each other by the driver’s side under the apparent guise of necessary space being given as we undress.

Why is it that we just cannot seem to comprehend the art of personal space and its lack of existence between us? A study should be done. Perhaps it already has been, and the scientists were pleasantly surprised, thinking that I was the sole problem child (given who I am as a person and how I orbit souls aplenty on this planet) only to discover that you’re just as fucking bad sometimes. But only with me.

As we undress, I pretend as though I’m not looking while watching you out the corner of my eye. It’s a move that I perfected long ago, one that I think you too like to pull, and might even be doing so now.

Somehow, you manage to finish before me, likely due to my distracted mind on this fine evening. You neatly place your clothes on your seat as I finish wrestling my pants from one foot, righting myself before leaning into the car to toss my things on the passenger side. I find you looking at me when I stand. _Looking_.

There’s only one place your gaze could have been situated while I was bending over, and it sure as hell wasn’t anywhere above my waist. And you’re only slightly bashful about being caught out when you finally do turn your attention back to my face, the smile that appears telling me a choice has been made, and that choice is _fuck it_. I may be in love with you, Edge. If you’re ever stuck wondering why that is the case, my response will be to simply list a whole bunch of little moments from our friendship, just like this one.

 _Day one hundred and ninety-two, you laughed at my joke when no one else did, and you meant it,_ I would start with, of course, as the beginning is always crucial. _Day one thousand six hundred and forty-four, you put me to bed when I was completely bollocksed, took off my boots and moved the bin to where it would be easily reached if needed. And day whatever the fuck this is, you snuck a peek at my white arse and found it so agreeable you thought it was time to stop pretending._

I’ve long since come to terms with what I want, and need, and almost have in this life. The world of romance is dictated by rules that are seemingly set but made to be broken, though only when it’s meant to happen. I’m certain that this is how it’s supposed to be. After all, how can wanting someone this much ever be a bad thing?

“I want you to be happy,” she said to me early on, and then later, and again only last night, and though specifics were never mentioned in any of those conversations, that look in her eye each time told me she knows the score. “I am happy,” I responded last night, “I’m with you.”

“Oh, love,” she said in that _whatamIgoingtodowithyou_ tone, and left it at that. It was Ali-code for _do we_ really _have to talk about this properly?_ and _we’re at our best together when we’re truly happy in life_ and _why have we been having the same discussion for years? Why must I keep having to find ways to allude to what I want to say without coming out and actually saying it? When did we become_ these _people? And why haven’t you done anything yet to solve the problem at hand?_

If nothing else, I know my wife through and through, except when I don’t. I know you too, though you still manage to surprise me. It’s possible that I know not a goddamn thing, and that sheer luck has allowed me to coast through life the way that I have.

“Earth to Bono, come in, Major Tom.”

It’s the middle of the night, we’re starkers on the beach, and instead of enjoying the moment I’ve been staring into space and overthinking. Isn’t that usually _your_ move? You have the vodka bottle in your hand again. You’re grinning at me like you know. Your skin in the moonlight looks like it should be sculpted by Michelangelo himself. I can’t _not_ look at you.

You were made to be admired.

What would your reaction be if I were to drop to my knees in front of you, right now? I want to suggest it. I very nearly make my move without saying a single word. But somehow, I manage to hold back, instead saying, “You’re coming in loud and clear, Ground Control,” like a coward.

“Glad to hear it,” you say, flashing the smile that belongs to me. “Do you think we should get this show on the road?”

“Eager to get it over and done with?”

You respond with just one look, still smiling my smile, before patting me on my naked shoulder. It’s where your hand stays for a precious few seconds as you guide us both toward the shallow. The water is rolling in gentle waves, looking like ink in the distance save for where the moonlight is shining down. It’s a sight that is both foreboding and welcoming, vast and intimate.

I could happily stay in the water for hours tonight, with you, if that’s what you wanted too. The night has only really just begun, after all, we have all the time in the world. We could swim, we could float, we could do anything that comes to mind. You can hide so much beneath the water. Out of sight, out of mind, right? If we wanted to, we could keep on pretending that nothing is happening, even as you touch me below the surface.

But why should we? Ignorance will get us nowhere fast. Staying in the water until we’re shrivelled up like prunes is just time wasted that could be better spent elsewhere, where we can watch all the happenings that are taking place. This is just the start of it all, do you realize that?

I think you do.

You hesitate right before the sand below turns from coarse to damp, first glancing behind us before turning my way. I stare right on back. It’s you who starts laughing first. “Why are we doing this again?” you ask when you can.

“I can’t quite recall,” I lie. “Why does anyone do this?”

“Because it seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“Mmhmm. That, and it’s incredibly freeing.”

“Is it now? You know this from past experiences?”

“Pretty sure we’re still in the midst of the dare part of the evening, Edge.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, I can’t possibly answer any truths, can I? It’s one or the other.”

“Uh huh,” you say after a pause spent eyeballing me. “You know you’re full of shit, right?”

“People keep saying that to me, and I have no idea why.”

“Get in the water, Bono.”

“You first. It’s the rules.”

You shake your head, muttering, “The rules,” to yourself, but do as you’re told, walking into the shallow with the confidence of a man who is trying his best not to feel self-conscious. “There. My feet are wet. I’ve held up my end of the bargain, it’s your turn now.”

“In a minute. I’m just enjoying the view.”

I don’t think either of us expected me to be so bold, but I’m not sorry I said it, and while you raise your eyebrows and automatically make a half-arsed attempt at shielding yourself from lecherous ole Bono, the expression that lingers on your face tells me you’re secretly thrilled. This is happening tonight. It has to.

We’ve never been this close to it before, not even that night when you, drunk but not completely legless, pulled me into your lap and mumbled something into my ear—words that I cannot quite recall, said in a provocative tone that has never dared to even _try_ and leave the forefront of my memory when we’re together—then pushed me away a beat too late when the door opened, revealing Larry who was mostly apathetic to the whole situation, _same shit, different day_. Though now that I think about it, we were _pret-ty_ fucking close to it that time.

But I don’t remember nearly as many suggestive glances my way on that night, nor such an atmosphere between us. No, I think tonight might just be the winner, even without anything yet really happening.

“Minute’s up, B. Arse in the water.”

“Do you talk to all your friends this way?”

“No, because they listen to me the first time. It’s only you who needs the firm tone, and then the firmer tone, and then the frustrated—”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, then start toward you, a move that finally shuts you up. It’s your turn to watch, the faint smile on your face telling me everything I want to hear. I don’t feel self-conscious, I never have. I want you to look, to make me flush in places where you can see, but also deep within me.

It’s probably best we’re heading into the ocean where I can hide before all that heat becomes noticeable on my person. Though things might progress more quickly if you could see just what you do to me before we are too far away from our quick escape. Where would we go? A hotel, perhaps, or even the back of your car, if we were feeling impatient and—

“Jesus!” I shout, recoiling at the first touch of water against my feet.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s fucking cold, Edge!”

“Oh, come on, no it’s not.”

I level a glare your way. “I don’t think you could be worse at lying if you tried.”

You hold up a placating hand, barely managing to bite back the laughter that’s threatening to emerge. You bastard. “Okay, so it might be a bit cold, but—”

“It’s summer, why is it so cold?” I demand. It’s a reasonable question, yet it makes you chuckle.

“Well, scientifically speaking—”

“Christ Almighty, forget I asked. I’m already regretting enough choices I’ve made in life without being handed more fuel for the fire.”

“I don’t think you can complain too much when this was your idea.”

“I think I can. Anyway, I believe ultimately this was a joint idea, when all is said and done.”

You roll your eyes. “Just get in the water, your body will adjust in no time.”

We could quite happily go another twelve rounds of this, as we have in the past. Our own personal brand of foreplay. But you are over there and I am here, and this distance between us just will not stand tonight. No, I need you close at all times, and since I cannot suggest you come to me after making such a big deal out of getting you into the fucking water, I have no choice but to keep on going. Staring you down the entire time, as you grin at me, apparently amused by my entire existence.

The water is freezing, but gets more bearable with each step that I take. I don’t comment on this miracle, though—you already know you were right, so admitting it will only puff up your almost-non-existent ego a fraction of an inch more.

You start walking backwards when I reach your side, forcing me to follow you further and further into the ocean until we are up to our chests and you are holding the vodka awkwardly above the surface. “Can I get in on that?” I ask, nodding toward the bottle.

“No, I don’t trust you with it. You misplace everything.”

“Not booze,” I counter.

“If you put it down in the ocean, B, it’s gone forever.”

“You underestimate my current need for that bottle, Edge. I’m cold,” I whine, wrapping my arms around myself. It’s an attempt at forcing you to pity me that doesn’t work, and for good reason. “I need it to light a fire inside of me. Doing anything with that bottle that isn’t drinking the entire fucking thing is just not on the cards.”

“You know, I’m finding the water to actually be quite pleasant now that my body has gotten used to it,” you idly say. “And we’ve been submerged in it about the same time, so . . .”

“So . . .”

“So I’m not buying this _I’m cold_ crap.”

“Fine, then I just want a drink.”

“We’re going in circles.”

“I won’t lose it, so hand it over.”

“Maybe I’m not in a sharing mood?”

Your eyes are laughing, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards. It’s another situation where we could go twelve rounds, easily. And I’m tempted to, if only to see just how clever you can be. What can I say? It turns me on, seeing you use that big brain of yours. But the idea that comes to mind is so thrilling that I cannot even consider ignoring it for a second longer. There’s verbal foreplay, and then there’s actual touching. I know which one trumps the other, and I want to experience both this evening.

“Don’t make me make you,” I say, then reach out before you can even think of responding.

Your lightning-quick reflexes that make you such a brilliant musician are still on point, however, just as I hoped they would be. You snatch at my hand with your glorious fingers before I can grab what you think is my prize, then pull me closer to my actual prize instead of shoving me back. Our knees bump together briefly, and you grin.

Given our current state of undress, some might say we’re dangerously close, but those people would be full of it. We could easily be closer still, and you seem to agree, your fingers wrapping around my wrist now to first push me away a few inches—under the charade of play-fighting, of course—before dragging me back to you, our bare legs brushing, knees knocking again, your breath warming my cheek.

I want you to pull me flush against you and hold me there until it becomes a reality. I’m too chickenshit to do it myself. Why? You wouldn’t stop me, I don’t think. In fact, I’m sure you would welcome it. Are you hoping that I’ll make the first move? Is this why we’ve never gotten anywhere? Ah, we’re a couple of walking human disasters, aren’t we, The Edge?

“I would think if you wanted it that bad,” you start, your voice thick with mirth, “you would put some actual effort into getting it. You know you have another hand that’s currently doing nothing, right?”

“Pity me, Edge!” I exclaim. “The cold has clearly made me useless.”

Our thighs slide together to stay, and this time I truly am rendered useless, out for the count, ready to be buried in a shallow grave. _What was it that finally done him in_? the people will ask, and after a suspicious silence you will stand like you are Spartacus himself and say _it was I_ , and not a single person in that room will be surprised, especially upon your clarification that you didn’t actually murder me, I just keeled over from the relentless sexual tension between us pumping all of the blood in my body away from my heart. _Well, I think we all saw that one coming. At least he died happy, in a sense,_ they will say, and you will quickly sit back down and pretend as though everyone isn’t staring at you.

But you secretly love the attention, don’t you? Especially when it’s coming from someone who truly matters. From me. Right now. We’re so close that I could likely get hard from a single well-placed touch from you, such is my current state of mind, and you are loving it. I don’t even care about the vodka anymore, I just want you to touch me. Below the surface, above it, between my thighs, along my collarbone—it doesn’t matter where, just that it happens.

Yet instead of giving me what I truly want, you finally take pity on me, bringing the bottle down to hold up to my mouth. Heat rushes through me as I drink, though it’s not the burning vodka that causes such a sensation, but you watching me like you’re eyeing off what’s for supper. You pull the bottle away once I’m done, and swallow when I lick my lips—partly to chase the last of the vodka, mostly for show—your throat bobbing as your lasergaze remains fixated on my mouth.

When you finally do look up, I’m almost certain you’re about to jump me. And when you bring your free hand up to slide along my arm, I’m sure of it.

I’m midway through sending a word of thanks up to the good Lord above when your lip quirks and that look in your eye changes. Half a second later, I’m turned upside down, the back of my head having its first violent meeting with the water, the words _what the fuck?_ running through my mind on a continuous loop before being replaced with _you wanker_ once I get my bearings.

You’re supposed to be the good one, dickhead, but here you are, pushing me and _laughing_ about it.

“I’m sorry,” you say only when I’m upright and judging you. “I couldn’t help myself.” You have the decency to look faintly guilty about the whole thing, though it’s a one percent situation compared to the tickled pink majority that has overwhelmed us both. I know you’re not mean-spirited (unless it’s warranted or Sting has been brought up in conversation) therefore this could only be teasing, so your choosing to do so when we’re potentially one breath away from _somethingverygoodindeed_ actually fills me with confidence.

There is certainty in the truth, faith in how the night is destined to play out, no matter what happens along the way. And I’m not just thinking in hopes and wishes anymore. My smile on your face tells me everything I need to know. We both understand the truth of how we are together.

“Do you forgive me?”

“No,” I say, while telling you with one look _there’s nothing you could do to me that would warrant you truly needing to beg for forgiveness. Not one damn thing_. Message received. “You got my hair wet, Edge. That’s the source of all my power.” And just like that, we’re back to joking around.

“Well, in that case, you’re lucky I didn’t come at you with a pair of scissors.” You pause for effect. “Or that you’re not me.”

“You could be completely bald and still be Superman, you know. Your power comes from here,” I say, tapping you on your naked chest between your beguiling nipples before moving up to press my finger against your forehead, “and here. I’m basically Shemp in comparison. Don’t even try and deny it, we both know the truth.”

After an affectionate moment or two spent staring at me, the spell is somewhat broken and you shake your head. “Only you could jump from talking about Sampson to referencing Superman and _The Three Stooges_ in the same breath.”

“No, I’m certain George Carlin could too.”

“Right.”

“Point is, Edge—”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“Definitely,” I say emphatically, making you smile like I just professed my undying love. “I mean, yeah, I think we’ve . . . fulfilled the requirements of the dare.”

“Does that mean it’s time to answer some truths?”

I shrug, aiming for nonchalant and failing completely. “Maybe. If you’re up for it.”

“Hmm,” is your only response as you start toward the shore. Naturally, I follow like your obedient dog, watching your naked body move gracefully through the water, squinting as we get closer to the car, the high beams a force to be reckoned with.

The breeze prickles my damp skin as soon as it is exposed, creating a sensation not unlike that which is felt when curious fingertips explore my inner thigh. I don’t think I could feel giddier if I tried, and though I’m trying to give off a cool, calm and collected vibe, my excitement is catching.

You flash me a grin that only ever appears when you’re about to lose it, and tonight is no different. Of course, contagious as laughter is, I have no choice but to join in. We bump shoulders as we walk, you wrap an arm around my shoulders when we reach the car, but when I lean in to your warm body, my forehead brushing against your cheek, the atmosphere between us changes so swiftly that it’s a wonder we’re both not left with whiplash.

We’re soon to be enclosed in a space together instead of in an endless body of water or on a stretch of beach breathing the same oxygen as the rest of the population. Is that the problem? Has it suddenly become too real? Your arm slips from my shoulders. You’re not laughing any more. I can’t even see your face to make a complete judgement on your current state of mind. All that I have is the way you’re standing—your naked body comprised of a multitude of different lines, angles and curves that tell a tale full of sex but missing half its soul—as you stare at the water, and the sound of your even breathing. Still, it’s enough to keep me hopeful.

You’re not a lost cause, far from it. You simply need this one moment. And, honestly, I can relate.

The best move that I can think to make is to just carry on about my business until you’re back with me and ready for whatever comes next. But you grab my arm before I can even take three steps away from you. “Bono.”

I turn to find you frowning like you just ballsed up a math equation for the very first time in your life. You didn’t mean to touch me or say my name right when you did, that much is clear—it just happened. And you also don’t know why you’re still holding my arm, but I don’t dare pull away or ask for an explanation. I simply wait.

There are only two ways this moment can go, the way I want and the way that it has in the past. _Why don’t you . . ._ _I want you to_ , I tell you with one raised eyebrow. Your expression clears. _So what’s keeping you? Please. Just do it already_.

You do.

I back up and lean in at the same time, my wet arse finding the side of the car, my nose bumping against yours before we find our matching rhythm, just like on stage. I’ve seen you kiss people who are not me—just your wife, mostly—enough over the years to have come up with a valid hypothesis of what it might feel like to experience it myself, but there is always a stark difference between theory and fact. You kiss me in a way that’s neither deep nor long but more gentle and curious, your fingers around my arm the only other place we’re touching.

It’s just one small kiss that’s over far too quickly for my liking, but it’s enough to make me want to carve open my chest and gift you my heart, and when you open your eyes to stare, it becomes obvious that you’re right there with me.

What will our reactions be when we take things further? Sonnets? Five years straight of me writing nothing but obscure love songs? I’m eager to find out, of course, but before any of that happens it seems we first have to gape at each other until the shock of this actually happening flits away.

“Bono,” you say again, without offering a follow-up.

“Yeah?” I manage to respond. Your grip on my arm has tightened considerably. If you’re scared I’m going to try and run away . . . you know I would never dream of doing something so idiotic. Drive on the wrong side of the road, certainly. Climb high above an audience like an ambitious cat who scales the tallest tree in town without a care before needing to be rescued? Well, of course. But running from you instead of _with_ you? There’s not a chance in hell.

“. . . I don’t know.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly. “Alright then.”

Naturally, I didn’t have the foresight to sneak a towel or two into your car, so we’re still wet as we get dressed, silent like a couple of fucking eejits, stealing glances the entire time. My clothes cling to me like a second skin, and while it’s not an unpleasant feeling, I am still counting down the seconds until they’re taken off again—hopefully not by me.

I’m not sure what to say to you, besides everything I’ve practised in daydreams and fantasies since the moment I knew. I’ve no doubt that it’ll all burst out of me eventually, perhaps even during the course of one car ride to wherever our next destination may be, but when I open my mouth to let it flow now, nothing happens.

You know, it takes a lot to shut me up, Edge. You should be proud of such an achievement.

But I’d much rather you make me moan.

There is a mood between us that reminds me of spotting lightning in the distance on a stormy summer’s night. Soon enough, it’ll strike here too, but before that happens we’re stuck smelling the ozone in the air, the anticipation raising hairs and altering lives.

You look at me properly once we’re in the car and the doors are shut, though you don’t speak, not yet. I watch the cogs working in your mind. Mercifully, it doesn’t take you long to come to a conclusion.

“I don’t want to go home,” you admit. “I just . . .”

“Then don’t,” I say simply, words I’ve rehearsed in the shower or during long plane rides spent watching you exist.

And just like that, the lightning is here, the air inside the car turning electric.


	2. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We continue and end, so I can actually concentrate on my schoolwork like I'm supposed to. I hope you all enjoy my weirdness and porn, I will get back to comments SOON xxx

You start the ignition and take us out of park faster than I’ve ever seen you do so, the journey off the sand and onto the road going at light speed in comparison to how long it took to get to the water. If there are any poor souls nightbathing on the beach, then so long, farewell, good riddance and fuck off, I have more important things to concentrate on right now. Your enthralling thigh, for instance, and the thoughts that appear when I stare at it for long enough.

I can easily imagine sliding my palm alongside that thigh, or being caught between both it and its twin as you frantically move against me. Such fantasies are one step closer to being a reality—a realization that leaves me feeling daring enough to make my first move.

You briefly glance down at my hand when it lands high upon your thigh before looking up at me with a smile that I almost know, one that is new to my conscious world but aligning with what I’ve dreamed about, belonging to us both. Remnants of the ocean have seeped through your pants, dampening my palm, but do I care? Fuck no. We’re both in the same condition, after all, so why kick up a fuss when I can instead return that smile of ours, squeeze your thigh and elicit an immediate reaction from you?

Like an absolute madman, you creep over the designated speed limit by a risky four miles per hour. I’ve always loved this side of you. And every side of you. God, I hope you know that by now. But if you don’t, I have a feeling it’ll click by the end of tonight.

I leave my hand right where it is.

“Where do you want to go?” you ask. It sounds like giddiness has snuck back into the equation, and I’m glad to hear it. I’ve often found that doubt has a habit of showing its face when the mood is too serious too soon, and I don’t want that to happen, not again.

There will be time later for things to turn deep and meaningful, when we truly pass the point of no return. Thankfully, you’ve realized this too.

“You could pull over right here?”

In the brief pause that follows it’s clear you’re considering heeding my suggestion, but then reasonable Edge emerges to remind me of the facts of life. Luckily, I’m fond of him too, though I sure hope he’s not intending to stay long. “Do you want to end up on the news tomorrow?”

“Of course I do. You know I live for the attention, Edge. It feeds my ego.”

You shake your head, chuckling. “There’s good and bad attention—”

“Oscar Wilde said that the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.”

“And he certainly knew a thing or two about public scandals—”

“Sure, but the man has been dead for almost ninety years, yet we’re still talking about him. What does that tell you?”

“Listen, I know that you and your best friend Oscar were—are—addicted to drama, but that doesn’t mean  _I’m_ comfortable making headline news for anything to do with my personal life.”

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy at play?"

"You do seem to like him an awful lot."

“That's a completely different issue, one that I refuse to discuss with you right now. Look, Edge, not a single car has passed us since we’ve been driving,” I argue, conveniently ignoring the headlights in the distance, “so I think we’d be safe. But if it makes you feel more comfortable, you could pull into some paddock. I’m sure no one would come knocking on the window there.”

“Yeah, except for the farmer who _owns_ the paddock, Bono!”

I nonchalantly wave my free hand, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing or kissing you. How long have we been practicing this kind of foreplay? Ten years? More? Generally, I can almost contain myself, at least until I’m alone. Right now, I’m desperate to know what it’s like to suck you, how you taste, the sounds you make as you come. I’ve imagined your fingers buried in my hair too many times in my life after a lively debate. Really, you have to know that arguing with me on this particular point—or any, I suppose—only makes me champion it more.

“You’re just clamouring for excuses now. It’s like you don’t—”

“Oh, I do, but one of us has to remain logical here,” you cut in, using your _settledownnowenoughisenough_ voice. And just like that, I’ve lost the battle, but I can’t be angry about it since I’ve still won the war. After all, we’re talking about this out in the open, planning a rendezvous instead of scurrying away from a conversation filled with innuendo to go have a sneaky wank in private. It’s taken us a long, _long_ time to get here, but this is definitely happening between us tonight, and that’s all that I need to satisfy me, even if I have to wait a little while longer than I want to experience it. Ten minutes, at least, maybe more. It’s impractical, but hypothetically doable. “If I ask again, will you give me a sensible answer this time?”

“It’s possible.”

You level me with a long-suffering look that quickly is overtaken by a grin. More giddiness. I’m close to squirming in my damp clothes. The feeling of my hair still dripping down my back is the only thing anchoring me to the before, our former reality. Are you certain we can make it to civilization without giving in? My fingers are itching to unzip your fly, and I can’t control them on the best of days. They don’t know logic, they just want to experience the world the only way they know how: by touch.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t care,” I reply, “as long as it’s close.”

Your expression says you’re incredibly satisfied with this response, your hard swallow tells me so much more. The hunt for a suitable and convenient room with four walls, a lock on the door, and preferably a big comfy bed quickly steals your attention away, while I do some serious Edge-watching.

The structure of your face fascinates me, you know. I’ve told you this before, early on, later, a week ago, more. Each time you’ve had no idea what to do with such a compliment, which was curious in the beginning, and downright funny from then on out. You would think that you’d accepted it by now, or at least been prepared and known what to say, but this is you we’re talking about, and you’re just a little bit odd.

When your face turns pink it brings out your cheekbones even more, with your hair kept at bay by your bandana I can fully appreciate your jaw, your nose. And when you smile in that slightly flustered way, your eyes become completely alive, and I imagine taking your hand and dancing, twirling you beneath the stars if only to keep you just as you are, free of constraints, a beating heart on show.

I’m sure it’s thoughts like that which make people tell me I am borderline eccentric—though they generally leave out the _borderline_ part—but that’s okay, I accept that. We can be strange together, you and I, driving down the highway, on the hunt and smiling at a joke we both know without even hearing it. “We should go dancing,” I pipe up, causing you to chuckle as you do only when it’s me who is speaking (and saying something apparently nonsensical).

“Right now? You want me to find us a club instead?”

“No, not a club. Just you and me, alone with only God as our witness.”

You nod, still smiling, any amusement replaced with pure warmth. “We will. But not tonight.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Why not tonight?”

“I have other plans,” you say, words that hit right where I want you to touch me.

“Pull over.”

“No.”

“Edge, I’m serious, pull over, I can’t wait—”

“We’re almost— _ah_!”

You stop at a hotel that I’ve never seen in my life but appears vaguely familiar to you. By day the complex probably has a dated charm to it, but in the dark it looks like a perfect setting for some serious drug trafficking. Is this what you get up to at night when I’m not around? It _is_ always the quiet ones, they say.

There are only three other vehicles in the car park, one which has to belong to whoever is running the joint. A booming business, no doubt. I’m actually impressed that you thought to bring me here. Who says romance is dead?

You don’t even try to hide the bottle of vodka as you lead me out of the car and toward the office, the two of us probably looking like we’re up to no fucking good. We don’t have any luggage, for one thing, our clothes are faintly damp in patches, I’ve no doubt my hair is a disaster, and you’re wearing an expression—one that I’m likely matching—that says we have plans to be very naughty this evening. But we are rock stars, and shit like this should be expected of us. At least we’re not out here selling crack cocaine. Or smoking it.

I’m about to open the door when you stop me with one touch. Hand on my shoulder, a probing look in your eye. I know what you’re searching for, and I’m happy to report you’re not going to find it.

The word _no_ does not exist in my vocabulary when you’re involved, not anymore, and rarely in the past.

There’s relief in your smile when it appears, though it’s marred by something I know far too well—the crisis that is the thought of engaging in an affair. But it’s a distant concern, for both of us, one that has been dealt with and _dealt_ _with_ and ultimately pushed into a darkened corner, from which it will emerge only on those rare nights when we’re disheartened enough to be susceptible to _what-if_ ’s and _how did we get here_ ’s but are perfectly fine with life come morning.

We’re grown-ups, Edge. Old enough to know what we want, mature enough to deal with the consequences of our actions, though I don’t think it’s me who has anything to worry about on my side. Does your wife have any thoughts on the matter like mine? Has she actually noticed what’s been going on between us for the past . . . for basically forever? Are you even thinking about her right now, or is just me occupying your mind?

I’m confident I know the answer to that last question, and it’s all that I want. Your full focus on me, the two of us existing in the moment just for each other. Why haven’t we done this sooner?

“Edge,” I murmur, because I can only go for so long without saying your name. You respond by leaning in to kiss me, but reconsider such a move well before we meet in the middle. We’re not free from prying eyes out here in a public place with no one around, after all. A bird could see us and go chirp about it to a reporter from _The Independent_ , and then where would we be? Best to keep this under lock and key, at least until we know what _this_ is.

I hope you understand, however, that I think it’s fucking bullshit that we’re not kissing right now. I have needs, you know.

Your sigh tells me you are currently having similar thoughts on the matter. “Come on,” you say, your hand finally leaving my shoulder to open the door. I follow you into a fluorescent-lit nightmare of a room, where the man at the front desk regards us with sleepy bewilderment. It’s hard to know whether this is because customers are a rarity around these parts, or if it’s us that has caused his eyebrows to rise an inch or two.

“Oh,” he says, quickly shuffling papers to hide the suspicious magazine he’s been gawking at. Despite his efforts, I still manage to spy a glossy nipple or two. “Oh, what are you—I mean, evenin’. What can I . . . do you actually need _rooms_?”

There’s a strong possibility that it’s us who has thrown his life for a loop. And I cannot help but crack a smile, even as I respond, in my humblest voice, “I’m afraid we do, though we’re not greedy. One room will do. We’re used to sharing. Isn’t that right, The Edge?”

“That is right, Bono.”

“And we’re already in trouble. You know, with the missus, both of them, for, well . . .” I gesture to my wet hair as if it is explanation enough. The man nods like I just delivered a signed document declaring all the devilish things we’ve done since saying _I do_. “We don’t want to needlessly splurge when we’re already skating on thin ice. That’s money better spent . . .” I turn to you, stumped on how to continue that train of thought. “Edge?”

“Making them love us again?”

 “Mmmm . . . sure. I suppose that could work.”

“Yup,” you agree, raising the bottle of vodka in the air because—oh Jesus, fuck knows why. Are you attempting to play the role of the drunken fool? When has that _ever_ worked? Only when you’re actually pissed, and even then, it’s debatable. But no, you’re going for it, grinning like a loon, leaning into me, suddenly unstable despite entering the building without a single issue.

It’s a choice, certainly, and I adore you for it, but I will still use it as fodder at a later date. Unless certain happenings this evening cause me to forget such a detail. Either way, I’m coming out of this with a story or two to entertain myself on a rainy night.

“He’s been very naughty, you see,” I tell the man as I pat you on the back. “I’m sure she’ll let him back in the house tomorrow, when he’s slept it off.”

“Okay,” the man says after a silence filled with a considerable amount of perplexed blinking. Such a charade, I think, is wasted on this dude. We could probably lay out the truth, tell him every detail of what we’ve imagined doing to each other, and it would still take about five weeks to click. But I’m not sorry we tried it—I love watching you play the game. “Ground floor alright?”

We’re quiet as we leave the office, bypassing four rooms to get to ours. The door sticks on the first try, opens on the second, apparently needing you to put your shoulder into it. Oh Edge, what big muscles you’ve got! You conceal your strength so well, yet you can battle an old door and win, you can bench-press far more than me, I imagine you could even lift me up and push me against the wall if you wanted to. Hold me there. Do what you think is right, then do all the wrongs I keep asking from you.

But before any of that can happen, a single touch is needed to start things off. Cross that line, move us ahead. Get me hard. One touch, right where it matters most. I have faith in it happening. I’m aching in my support for you.

The room is basic, its bed large enough for two height-challenged men like ourselves. A close inspection reveals the covers to be thankfully stain-free, something I’m sure we can change by the end of the evening. It seems hotter inside than out where there's a breeze. Naturally, the ceiling fan refuses to budge. My, aren’t we the lucky ones this evening?

.  . . actually, yes. We definitely are.

There is a small desk boasting a kettle and a couple of sachets of tea and sugar, yet no fridge or bar. The television doesn’t work when I try the remote. You switch it on by hitting the power button on the set, shoot me a _seriously? this is what you want to do right now?_ look, then press the button once more. There’s something so fascinating about watching a screen fade away to nothing, how some televisions seem to glow when they’re off. It’s a sight, however, that has nothing on you.

Even if we were in a hotel room filled with pure extravagance, you would still be the most interesting subject, the only man to hold my gaze for good. You laugh when I toss the remote across the room, yet turn serious when I take a step closer to you. Two, three, more. Seven steps all up. And here we are. Side by side, alone at last. _Do your worst_ , I tell you with a wink. _I’m ready_.

Too long has passed since we were naked together, and your clothes are basically dry. I’m in a different boat, having spent the entire car ride with my hair bleeding water into the back of my shirt, the seat of my pants. I have an excuse to strip, you take your clothes off in solidarity. That, and because we both know it’s how the night is going to progress anyway. Why waste time better spent scratching an itch, conquering our Everest?

We wrap towels around our waists, though I’m not sure why exactly. Maybe it’s our version of Christmas morning, a chance to unwrap a gift we’ve been waiting for?

It has to be you to take this towel from me, I refuse to do it myself. And you could do so while we wait for the shower to heat up. You could kiss me as the room fills with steam, drag me under the water and wash the salt from our skin, rinse it out of my hair, taste it on my lips. Press me against the glass, love, whisper your dirty thoughts into my ear, those things you’ve dreamed of doing to me for so long. Tell me what you want us to do tonight. Grab me by the hand now, pull my towel from me, and take me there.

Nothing of the sort happens. Instead, you neatly fold your clothes and set them on the desk as I hang mine over the back of the chair to dry, then we move as a single entity to the bed to stretch out, our legs brushing, shoulders bumping. It’s there that time turns hinky, a minute spent drinking in silence feeling like an hour, a touch of your hand against mine flying by in an instant. This night might yet take our entire lives to pass.

I’d rather that than it turning into a mere blip, easily forgotten. Though I doubt that I could ever forget this night, even this moment. Just the two of us, side by side, delaying the inevitable as we pass a bottle back and forth. Two taut strings ready to break.

“Should we talk about this?” you ask.

“Do you think we have to?”

You turn your head my way, your eyes offering up an entire conversation in one meaningful look. I respond in kind, giving you a _yes_ and _I know_ and then a _what’s stopping us_?

 _So much_ is what the stupid part of me still half-expects you to say with a sigh, or by you leaving my side. It’s what’s you’ve given me in the past, after all, but not tonight. _It’s too late_ , I get instead. _We’re well past the point of resistance, aren’t we?_

“No,” you say, setting the vodka bottle on the bedside table. “I don’t think we do.”

I take the hint when your hand finds my shoulder to tug (tentatively, as if you’re still not entirely convinced you are wanted), shifting closer until I can easily roll into the heat of your body, my arm following the curve of your chest, my chin finding its natural place.

We were made to fit together, like yin and yang. I knew this after you made your first starring appearance in my fantasies, that lonely night spent in a too-warm hotel room, my thoughts straying from the way you had hugged me goodbye only a few hours prior to you dragging us together and holding me there, whispering all the right things in my ear—filthy words and phrases that have followed me from daydream to daydream—making me moan as we moved as one, my toes curling back in that lonely hotel room as I came hard against white sheets, the reality of a startling new revelation setting in after the haze finally cleared. I knew it without once touching you in such an intimate manner, I’m overjoyed and overcome at having my suspicions confirmed. Your warmth, your life . . . 

It’s how we stay for what feels like an age, barely breathing, the anticipation of what is about to happen making the skin of my arm prickle and causing the thump of my heart to echo out of my chest and up between my ears, breaking free to sound through the room at the very moment your hand again makes its move. Can you hear it too?

 It’s you, Edge. You’ve done this to me, simply by doing the bare minimum.

I imagine I’ll be truly fucked by the end of the night.

You touch me next where I least expect it, turning all your attention to the damp mess on my head, first stroking, then slowly carding your fingers through my long strands, over and over, your expression close to wonder. It’s a move that makes me want to say it, to explain to you exactly how I feel. I think you’d be glad to hear it, I’m sure you already know.

“Tell me a secret,” I say instead. “Who is it that makes you think all those naughty thoughts?”

“No.” You’ve never said the word like that to me before, full of a new kind of affection, revealing a different Edge that I can’t wait to know. Gone is the tentative man from only a minute or two ago—you’ve found your confidence, my reaction to your every action clearly affecting you in the best way. It’s how I want you to be. Take charge, take me over completely, I have a vision, one that has kept me up on so many nights, and that vision involves you at your most powerful. Like the Wizard of Oz, only without all the bullshit. “You gave the dare, so it’s my turn to ask.”

“Then ask.”

“Same question.”

“Who is it that—”

“Who is it,” you confirm, your hand stilling in my hair. It stays there as we look at each other, then moves when I give in and smile. “I want to hear you say it.” With a fingertip, you trace my top lip, an action that momentarily steals all rhyme and reason from my one-track mind. I kiss the pad of your thumb when the chance arises, and you let out a low noise that catches us both by surprise. “Bono.”

“You already know.”

“Tell me anyway.” I can smell the vodka on your breath when you lean in close, feel the electricity in your fingers as they light up my cheekbone, my jaw, trailing four lines down past my shoulder, lower. A man on the hunt, conscientious but focused. Soaking in my reaction with your intense gaze. How did I ever think I would know what this felt like? A fantasy is just a state of mind, but this, this . . .

“It’s you,” I choke out. “Of course it’s you.”

You are not gentle this time around, instead kissing me like you’re determined to blow my non-existent socks off, or take over my entire soul and make me forget I ever had a life that did not revolve entirely around you.

It’s a practiced move, the way you pull me closer with two strong arms and fingers made of steel, one you’ve obviously imagined doing so at length over the course of fuck knows how many years. You’ll leave bruises with those fingertips if you’re not careful (maybe you want to?). I’m already sure my lips will be blushing red when all is said and done, you fucking animal. Breath, mouth, tongue, teeth—I now associate these words with you, and we’re only just at the beginning.

How many more words can you change for me by the time we leave this hotel room? I have expectations that deserve to be met. _Vampire: an Edge who sucks on a throat like he’s after a feed. Oh fuck: a verbal way of giving thanks to my new Lord and Saviour, The Edge._ Give me more, love, I want to fill a book and dedicate it to you. Give me everything you’ve got.

 _Oh fuck_ , I think but do not say, as you don’t give me a chance. Do we even need to move on from kissing? I could live and die like this, moaning like a cheap whore—and don’t try to dispute such a label, because you paid for both my dinner and this room, with _plenty_ of change to spare, mind you—as you mouth a wet line alongside my jaw now, your left hand trailing back down my bare skin until it reaches the towel around my waist.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter when you undo the knot. It’s the wrong thing to say, clearly, as it makes your mouth stop doing what it’s doing. It’s the right thing to say, _clearly_ , because you pull back to laugh, a gentle chuckle that I always love to hear, that fills the room as you push the towel away from my hip, my arse, exposing me as much as you can. When did you become so bold? I think you thrive when faced with an audience of one. No, you thrive no matter where you are, what you do and who you are with, you fucking superstar. 

There is, of course, still the issue of me being pressed against your side, the terry cloth caught in between us both, covering my front while also doing an utterly shite job at shielding from you the beginnings of my delicate state. One quick glance downward shows we’re in this together, united in our plight, ready to have towels abolished in all hotel rooms that try and contain us. I could already be looking at you, and we could be skin to skin, if it weren’t for those goddamn off-white monstrosities.

How many times have I found myself in your presence immediately after one of us has showered? Imagine where we would be if towels weren’t part of the equation. All those conversations spent dripping wet and naked, trying not to look until it all becomes just too hard, spreading my legs for you, asking for it five years ago, maybe more.

Your smile makes me wonder if you can read my thoughts, the rush to unknot your own towel leaves me sure of it. _Let me see_ , I think, and you do.

I’ve seen you naked before, but never like this. It’s a sight that makes me gape, that leaves me momentarily frozen. This is finally happening. No more hiding, nor excuses. I’m free to touch you just as I’ve dreamed of doing. I could do so right now, hold your cock in my hand and take you from semi-arousal to full, reveal your most-hidden gift, the one you’ve been aching to show me.

It’s astounding how calm you seem in all other aspects. I’m intensely aware of my own breathing, how it quickens with each new experience, but you, Edge . . . luckily, I know where to look to gauge your excitement, other than your naked self, of course.

I don’t need you close to hyperventilating, or explaining in detail just how much I turn you on. Right now, your eyes are telling me how you’ve wanted this for so long, your smile saying you always knew we’d get here someday. With one kiss you rewrite the story of our entire future together, leaving it up to me to take us back to the now. Usually it’s the other way around, me thinking forward, you stuck in the present, or the past. I’m enjoying these new changes in roles, the two of us on a journey of self-discovery.

What now? I don’t have a concrete narrative planned for us; you look just as lost in the moment.

We don’t know what we’re doing, but that’s okay. We’ll figure it out together, like we always have.

You kiss me again, and I touch you like I have so many times in my mind. Your stomach, your sternum. That beguiling nipple of yours. My fingers skim through chest hair, make their mark, then lose the plot completely when you bring your own into the equation, our hands straying, grasping, groping, your kiss turning clumsy, interrupted by a huff of breath that resembles laughter but might just be your arousal breaking on through to the other side.

Nope, it’s laughter—elated, beautiful, tinged with a side of _I can’t believe this is actually happening_.

 _It’s real_ , I think, positive you can read my mind. And you do, you must. Laughter fading into a smile, a smile turning darker. I kiss you this time, simply because I can. You’re a different man when we pull away, focused, determined, passionate.

God, how many times have I sat in the studio watching you like this, only without the heat? You, with your attention directed toward the guitar in your hand, or the tune playing through the room, my own voice singing to you in snatches, in full, nonsensical or something close to lyrical. And how many times have I imagined you looking at me like that for as long as I need?

It’s far more devastating than I ever thought it would be. I’m fucked, I truly am. This is your show to run, because you’ve already broken me. What is control? I have a distant memory of knowing it. Did I ever hold it over you? I must have, though now it seems implausible.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” I answer, sounding in a daze.

“Just fine?”

“Never better, actually.”

“We can stop. Or slow it down, if you—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your expression says _okay_ , your touch declares it’s time to get a move on. You wrap your strong arms around me and pull, my towel falling away completely.

One blink and we are chest to chest, your fingers skittering up and down my back, our thighs shifting together. My cock is trapped between us, pressing against your hip, and yours . . . I’m feeling you, Edge. I actually have you. Your hardness, your need—it’s right there in your eyes, touching my skin.

If I move, will you make a noise? You’re so quiet. I knew you would be. Even if I took you in my mouth, I doubt you’d make that much of a racket.

No, you’d simply bite it all back as you watched, though your breath would catch, your fingers would clutch at my hair, tightening your grip only when you were about to come, and then there would be one drawn out moan, and maybe my name. Whispered. Breathless. I'm almost confident I know every detail, I'm hopeful you have some surprises up your sleeve. Soon enough, the truth will be revealed. 

Me, on the other hand . . . I specialize in noise-making. Do whatever you want with me, love, a light touch, a hard fuck, it will make no difference. Press me into the mattress and make quick work of it, take it slow, make it last, whatever you do I’ll be loud enough for the both of us.

The people in the next room—if there are any—may yet fear that someone is being murdered in here when we get going, but they will be wrong, dead wrong, as it’s only in the heat of the moment when I truly become alive. And you know this, I’m sure, even without having ever experienced it.

You know what I’m like. You’ve imagined how I could be. You’re looking forward to the ego boost that will come with me validating your every move. Listen to me, I’ve already started. I just cannot help myself, not when I’m with you.

With one hand you discover the curve of my arse, your lasergaze fixed on me, drinking in my reaction. This is it, this is how it starts. Slowly, curiously. And I’m living for it, certainly, but at this rate we’ll be here all night. I snatch your lax hand in mine and draw it up until it joins its partner on my body.

The effect is instantaneous, your fingers digging in, holding me still as your hips begin to move, aligning with my own, an electric current shooting through every nerve in my body when our cocks brush together.

 “Oh my god,” you murmur, your voice sounding like it’s coming from a distant room. One more thrust is all you seem capable of doing, and then you are still, your fingers going slack, eyes widening as you stare me down.

Well, shit.

This entire time I’ve been relying on you to be the calm one, he who is able to weather the storm as I hold on for dear life, but it appears that a problem has arisen. Have I broken you too? Look at us. A couple of useless eejits, out for the count right at the very start. Someone has to take a hold of the situation.

Luckily for us, I’ve always worked best under pressure—or so I’ve been told. Sometimes, I have serious doubts on the matter, like in those moments when I’m two seconds away from collapsing like a house of cards, but then I hold on, focus, walk ahead with my head held high, and fucking _pretend_ that I’ve got this.

You lean into me, your forehead landing against my shoulder to stay as you utter my name. I roll my hips one final time, supremely proud of myself when your fingers again dig into my skin, then take over.

It’s not a long journey down your body but I stretch it out as much as I can, a slow drag of my hands followed by a mess of damp hair, a curious wet mouth. I can’t see you, but I still know what expression you’re wearing, and am able to anticipate the moment you decide it’s time to take my head in your hands. It’s not an effort to hold me still, but merely a need to have my hair slip between your fingers, to know my movements from both sides.

I don’t have a plan, of course. When do I ever? My entire life has been dictated by one sentence: _I’ll figure it out in the moment_. All I know is that I want to be doing this, that I have to know what it’s like right now, how your hipbone feels pressing against my cheek. The way your thigh trembles minutely when I kiss your skin and smile. You say my name again. I think it’s the only word you know anymore. It’s different now, the way that it leaves your lips, curving like colours in a rainy sky, sounding like it does in my dreams.

I’ve imagined all of this from every possible angle, with you on top or standing over me as I kneel, in the car, in the bath, everywhere. But when I do finally touch you, I feel like a blushing virgin all over again.

I am actually holding your cock in my hand. Your fucking balls. It almost matches my fantasies, almost feels like my own, but there is a difference in texture, in weight, in how it affects my entire equilibrium.

It’s only a penis, for fuck sake, but it’s yours, and it is _divine_.

I begin stroking you more as an experiment than anything, curious to see how this you reacts compared to the Edge I already know on an intimate yet imaginary basis. Your cock hardens in my palm as your hips slowly start to move, your foreskin sliding like silk. You’re looking down at me like you want to discover every inch of my body, but only after I’m finished here. I know you too well, it seems. I dreamed you up just as you are.

There’s a reason why I’m down here instead of up there and kissing you until we’re on the brink of dehydration. I know what I want to do, and yet when I lean in, my mouth finds your thigh at the last possible moment.

Is it too real? Am I worried about disappointing you in some way? Frightened that after so many years getting off at the thought of sucking you that I might not enjoy doing it? Three ticks _yes_ , with maybe more boxes to follow, a whole list of specific neuroses that I’ve not yet considered.

As is often the case in my life, however, you gift me the courage that I need to make it through. And this time, you do it by brushing the hair from my face with one hand and holding it out of the way. You want to see exactly what I’m doing, you crane your neck for a better view. And then you smile at me, and I know.

I can do this. I can do everything with you.

All it takes is a slight turn of my head. You hiss out a breath as I kiss the side of your cock, yet fall silent once I take the head in my mouth. It’s real, all those dreams. I know this, your reaction, your warmth, but not your taste.

When I suck on you I feel an ache deep within me, when I slide my tongue up the length of your cock I imagine your hands gripping my hips as I ride you in this very bed.

We’re nowhere near ready for that yet, but I still almost lift my head and demand it. I want you to fuck me, I want to blow you to completion, swallow your come. There’s a reason why I shouldn’t be in control right now—I want it all at the same time, but you are only one man. One incredible man. Who can read my thoughts, know my current state of mind, and understands what I want even before I do.

Wordlessly, you beckon me back up, wrapping your arms around me as soon as you are able, the hardness of your body providing comfort that I didn’t know I needed. And then I’m caught between your thighs, the prophecy I had in the car coming true, in a sense.

My mind had pictured us frantic, but you take it slow, holding me as we move our hips at a gentle pace. Any faster and I’d probably implode right here on top of you. Already I want to cry, which is both surprising and not, given who I am as a person. I may be shaking, trembling against you as I clutch your hip, your thigh, urging you on, wanting you to take a pause so I can breathe you in before our sweat mingles and we become one. I cannot blame you for not stopping, and I think you would understand if I lost it completely, if I were to interrupt my moans to say your name again and again until you silenced me _, EdgeEdgeEdgeohfuckEdge_. . .

“ _Edge_.”

You respond by rolling us in one smooth motion. It doesn’t really click what is happening until well after your full weight is on top of me, and you are moving, faster now, your face buried in my neck, your teeth slicking my skin. I’ve imagined you fucking me like this, I’ve thought of you pressing me into the mattress and taking what you want more times than is probably healthy. I’m not going to make it. That pressure is building, there are black spots dancing throughout the room, a dark red when I squeeze my eyes shut, the ceiling one big blur when I open them.

The air is stifling in here, in a way that fits the mood entirely. All I can taste is sweat, though I don’t know if it’s yours or mine. You are sticky, overheating, burning my skin, my insides as you pump your hips against mine, and you are moaning now, a sound that I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly, that will fuel every dirty night I have when I’m alone but thinking about you, thinking about this, thinking about your breath in my ear, your voice. Oh love, you sound like you want only me in this life, no one else. I need to hear you come, I want to feel it on my skin, for you to make your mark, claim me as yours.

You stop and sit up at the worst fucking moment imaginable, right when my toes were almost curling and I was about to start singing _Hallelujah_. “What—”

“Shhh.” You shake your head, smiling down at me like you’ve got a plan. Only a few seconds ago you were gasping on top of me, but now you’re almost calm, if I ignore the high colour of your cheeks, the sweat clinging to your skin. Your achingly hard cock. Even that look in your eye is a reminder of what we’ve been up to. But your smile doesn’t match any of that. It’s full of wonder, of pure warmth. You stopped for a reason. And of _course_ I’m with you every step of the way, supporting your choices one hundred percent, even if they come at a shockingly inconvenient time, personally.

It’s only when you reach out and touch me with both hands that your reason for stopping becomes clear. You begin to stroke me with your right hand, while gently pushing the hair from my face with unsteady fingers, giving you the clearest view. You want to watch me, but this time it’s not because I’m doing something to you that you find terribly agreeable. No, this time you want to see what I look like when I fall apart, the effect you have on me. How you make my breath start to quicken, my hips roll in time with the beat in your mind. 

 _Faster_ , I want to say to you, _stop, slow down, do whatever you want, fuck me, suck me, just make me fucking come_.

You have my thighs trapped between yours, your free hand now splayed on my stomach, rising and falling with each breath. Can you feel it in me? That pressure building? It’s there, it’s so close, it’s right out of reach, and you are smiling about it, you beautiful bastard, and then you are gone.

“Open your eyes,” you say. “I want to . . .”

It’s not a sentence you have to finish. I follow my instructions simply because it is you who gave them to me. You want to see me, here, now, later. Is it blue that you dream about? Is that why you love the sea? You can take me there again, take me swimming, taste the salt on my skin as you kiss me, whisper in my ear all those dirty thoughts, Edge, tell me what you want to do to me, tell me I’m yours, say it now.

You do. Your eyes, your touch . . .

I lose you for a blinding moment, then find you again as I’m gasping through the last of it, my body surging between your thighs, my non-existent socks having been blown clear across the room. Far too soon, you draw your hand away. I want it back. It might yet be the death of me tonight. Do I care? Actually, yes. It would be tragic if I never got to experience this again.

We’re quiet as I come down, the only sound being my ragged breathing. I think I need a moment. You agree, as patient as always.

Oh, you beautiful genius, look at that smile of yours. You don’t know how special you are, do you? Of course, you’re aware of the immediate effect you’ve just had on me, but do you know the full extent? Your expression is that of pure wonder as you touch my temple with gentle fingers, wiping a bead of sweat away.

There’s more where that came from, love. I think I’m wet all over. You’re welcome to fix that if you like, I’ll be right here for the rest of the night, embedded into the mattress, unable to move. If you don't mind, I’ll take vodka over ice, but only when you’re ready. First, I’ll have whatever else you’re willing to give me, though I already have your smile, your kiss. Your palm against my cheek. What’s left?

This.

I reach out a hand, but it is captured before I can touch you and brought back down against the pillow, where our fingers intertwine. Slowly, you start to stroke yourself with your free hand, your gaze shifting back and forth from my face to the streaks of come on my stomach. Your leisurely speed is deceptive—I’ve no doubt you’re aching to add to the mess as soon as humanly possible.

 _It turned you on, making me come like that, didn’t it?_ I want to ask you, but am reluctant to interrupt the moment you’re having, the near-silence between us. But I’m sure you read the question in my smile, my stare. You respond with a moan, and then another, your hand twitching against mine, your breath catching in your throat.

It’s only at the last possible moment that you squeeze your eyes shut and leave me behind, and already I can imagine forming an addiction to the way your hips jerk as you come, and those delicious sounds: the frantic slick of your palm, the choked cry escaping from deep within your chest. And the wet heat that’s so familiar, so like my own, and yet purely you.

No, there’s really no reason to try and pretend anymore—I _have_ formed an addiction, and it’s taken me all of twelve seconds to get there.

This is why I’ve never picked up a needle, why I get a headache when I’ve gone too long without drinking coffee. I know what I’m like, I’ve failed at controlling myself, I’m already desperate for that next hit.

You say my name when you are able, breathless, relieved. You touch my face and smile down at me when I kiss your palm and your wrist, over and over until you have no choice but to lean in and stop me with your own mouth. And when you’ve taken all that you need, you finally relax against me, burying your face into my neck, breathing in my sweaty post-sex aroma . . . you lucky dog, you. For your sake, I hope I smell even a fraction of how incredible you do right now—fascinating, new yet familiar, and utterly masculine.

It’s too damn hot for this intimate interlude, but I will gladly be stricken by heat exhaustion if it means you staying with me for as long as I want. We’re rich enough, we could buy this hotel and make it our own, keep this room just for us. For this.

“I have a vision, Edge.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

“. . . what’s your vision, Bono?”

“Well, I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh, really?”

“No, you played the last round, remember?”

“I didn’t realize we were still playing. I figured—”

“We’re _always_ playing.”

“Right.” You’re about two seconds away from laughing. I know this because I’ve spent my entire life learning your buttons and then pressing them, just so I can hear you break in the enthralling way that you do. “Are you looking to dare me again?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s likely.”

“I bet.”

“I’m going to, whether you like it or not.”

You respond by shaking your head, but I’ve no doubt that you’re completely charmed by me, like always. It’s what led us here, after all. It’s why we’re still joking instead of talking this through like we probably should, discussing where to go from here.

But there’s plenty of time for that later, once we’re been pried apart by a powerful force and hosed down with refreshingly cold water. Right now, you seem content to stay where you are, your hand coming up to stroke my hair just as you did earlier. I assume there might be a fascination there that I will never understand, and I hope you won’t take it personally if and when I do cut it all off. That’s a problem, however, best left to the future. For once, we are both completely occupied with the present.

“ _Soo_ ,” I start, causing you to finally crack. You laugh like you already know the punchline, and maybe you do, but that’s okay, because it’s far less important than the dare I have planned or what’s bound to follow. “What’s your recovery time like?”


End file.
